


Strange and New and Unexpected

by xxSparksxx



Series: And Then There Were Two [13]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Mention of past rape/non-con, Sex, Smut, mention of violence, sex and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: “So? What did the doctor say?”“He’s quite satisfied with my progress.” She watches as he removes waistcoat, tie and shirt, revealing his torso to her. The lean muscles, the familiar scars, the dark hair that trails down below the waistband of his trousers. “They want me to have another check-up in a month,” she adds, “but it’s just a precaution. I’m fit and well again, as far as they’re concerned.”“Good.”He still hasn’t grasped the implications. “I mean,” Vera says, impatience colouring her voice, “that I’m cleared for ordinary activities.” She raises an eyebrow. He looks at her for a long moment, brows drawn together in confusion, and then, at last, awareness dawns. His eyes sharpen. His mouth begins to curve into a smirk. He has understood. He knows precisely what she means.





	Strange and New and Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> This…….grew. And for once, it wasn’t Vera’s fault! It’s a new direction for the two of them, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Beta-read by the lovely mmmuse.
> 
> Please note: the warnings for violence and rape are for mentions of historic violence and rape, the latter of which does not involve either Philip or Vera.

“I saw the doctor yesterday,” Vera says, unbuttoning her blouse and revelling in the fact that not a single part of her hurts at all. 

It’s a month since she came home from the hospital. A month since she and Philip had had the fiercest quarrel they’ve ever had. A month since the last of Vera’s walls had come tumbling down, when she’d admitted the truth that she had tried to keep from him for so very long, and been rewarded for her candour by hearing the words she had so longed to hear from him.

He loves her. 

Three words that he’d said so very easily, almost casually. Such a contrast to the way he had ripped them from her mouth with rage and violence and then, at the very end, with gentleness and unending patience. He _loves_ her. Despite her monstrous nature, despite her sins and flaws, he loves her. More than that, he’s promised never to leave her, never to let her drive him away. And she believes him. She believes him when he swears that nothing, not even her, will part them.

He loves her, and she loves him, and she is _happy_. Happy, because though she sometimes wakes up in the night and wonders if it was all a dream, at least she knows that if she rouses him, he will soothe her doubts. On the nights when fear grips her tight, she curls into him and whispers his name until he wakes. Then he pulls her close and murmurs promises against her skin. ‘ _I’ll hold on tight,_ ’ he breathes into her ear, and ‘ _shh, darling, I’ve got you,_ ’, and Vera listens to his vows and basks in the fierceness of them.

They have fought, of course. An exchange of truths, words given and taken, was not enough to erase the damage she’d caused, the anger he’d felt over what she’d done. But since that day, since she’d admitted she’d killed their child and then given her heart into his hands, he’s lost the viciousness she’d seen in him during her time in hospital. His anger has never reached such heights; his violence has been entirely in check. Yes, they have fought again, but gradually peace has taken over, and Vera, still recovering, has been glad of it. She isn’t foolish enough to think this is a crime he will forget, but she thinks she’s been forgiven.

When Philip gives her no answer, she turns and looks at him, a hand on her hip. He’s been strangely taciturn this evening. Not rude, nor bitingly sharp the way he can be sometimes, just…quiet. He’s been away for three days, and usually when he returns from a work trip, he’s attentive and affectionate. Lustful, too, though of course, they haven’t been able to have sex in nearly two months. The doctors had refused permission until she was further healed, and accordingly, frustratingly, Philip has obeyed the directive. He’s been almost chaste in his attentions, seeking nothing more from her than kisses that, while pleasant, have rarely been passionate. Vera has wanted more, but each time she’s tried to push, he has eased away from her. Not unkindly, but deliberately. It’s not lack of desire on his part. The signs of his lust are clear enough, though he hasn’t even allowed her to give him some satisfaction in other ways, with her hands or mouth. She has slowly come to realise it’s care for her that’s made him follow doctors’ orders so diligently. Protecting her against herself until she’s declared fit, refusing to allow thought to proceed to any deed that might inadvertently set her back in her recovery.

Two months ago, she wouldn’t have known what to make of it, but now she understands his motivation, and that understanding has given her a measure of patience.

Patience, yes, but also a mounting sense of anticipation. She doesn’t know how it will be, now. They have fucked so many times before, they have _made love_ so many times before, but she thinks it will be different this time. Now they have both, at last, been utterly honest, Vera thinks it will feel changed, somehow. It will be more… _more_. His hands on her, his mouth, his cock, all utterly familiar to her after their months together, but transformed by the knowledge that she is loved. 

She is _loved_. The thought of it sends a thrill through her, makes her feel fluttery and light, freed from the masks and lies and burdens that have dogged her since childhood. He loves her. Philip loves her, and though she sometimes still doubts, though she cannot so quickly shake off all of her fear, she is striving to let that knowledge sink into her very bones. To let it warm every inch of her misshapen heart.

“Philip,” she prods. “Did you hear me?” He’s standing by the window, nursing a glass of something and staring out into the darkness. At the sound of his name, he finally looks at her, and lets the curtain fall to cover the window. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “What did you say?” He still seems preoccupied. She watches him for a moment, trying to judge his mood. It can only be something to do with his work; she’s done nothing to cause such a reaction. He doesn’t like his current job, she knows that much, but he won’t talk about it if he doesn’t want to, and she’s too keen to share her news to be much interested in finding out what’s going on. This will be a distraction for him, at least. He won’t be thinking about work for much longer, not if he feels the same way she does. And she’s sure he does; she’s sure he’ll be just as eager as she is, once he understands. 

“I said I went to the doctor yesterday,” she repeats. “For my check-up.”

“Oh?” He finishes his drink, sets the glass aside. “Oh yes, I remember. You wouldn’t rearrange it.” He’d wanted to come, insisted on coming, but then this job away had come up, and Vera had in turn insisted that he take it. She’s seen the hospital bill; she knows how much her accident has cost them. It was an expensive mistake, in more ways than one. 

Philip rolls his eyes at her, mouth tugging into a lopsided smile. He knows what she’s thinking. 

“We’re fine,” he says, not for the first time. “I keep telling you, don’t worry about it. This protection racket – it’s dull as hell, but it pays well.” He comes to her, puts his hands on her waist underneath her unbuttoned blouse, presses his forehead against hers. She inhales his scent, day-old cologne and a hint of sweat. “Trust me,” he murmurs. 

There’s only one answer she can give to that, of course. “I do,” she promises. And she does. She can’t release all of her demons at once, but she does trust Philip. She is _determined_ to trust him, in all things, because if the last few weeks have taught her anything, it’s that she truly has nothing to fear by revealing her insecurities to him. “But I’ll still feel better when the bill is paid.”

“Hm.” He kisses her forehead and lets her go, glancing her up and down as he begins to undress. “So? What did the doctor say?”

“He’s quite satisfied with my progress.” She watches as he removes waistcoat, tie and shirt, revealing his torso to her. The lean muscles, the familiar scars, the dark hair that trails down below the waistband of his trousers. “They want me to have another check-up in a month,” she adds, “but it’s just a precaution. I’m fit and well again, as far as they’re concerned.”

“Good.”

He still hasn’t grasped the implications. “I mean,” Vera says, impatience colouring her voice, “that I’m cleared for ordinary activities.” She raises an eyebrow. He looks at her for a long moment, brows drawn together in confusion, and then, at last, awareness dawns. His eyes sharpen. His mouth begins to curve into a smirk. He has understood. He knows precisely what she means. He throws his shirt into the laundry basket in the corner of the room and unbuckles his belt with deliberate movements. Vera takes off her blouse and lets it fall to the floor. Her bra follows. Her skin prickles with the intensity of his gaze, with the anticipation that’s been building ever since the doctor had said she could resume marital relations with her husband. With Philip. 

“Well, well,” he murmurs eventually. “Mrs Lombard.” There’s a particular tone in his voice that she hasn’t heard in nearly two months. Not since before her…accident. It’s enough, after such a prolonged stint of abstinence, to make her heart beat quicker. It’s enough to make her mouth dry. “If I’d known, I’d have tried to get away earlier.”

“I wouldn’t have called you home for something like this.” She unfastens her skirt and kicks it away, not taking her eyes off him. His belt lands on the floor, and then his trousers. There’s no finesse to it, from either of them. Just the pressing need to be naked together. “Besides,” she adds, discarding her knickers so she’s bared to him, “I’m told patience is a virtue.”

Philip laughs softly and holds out a hand to her. “Come here,” he says, jerking his head ever so slightly. Vera doesn’t hesitate. She needs him too much to bother with trying to play games. She crosses the room to him at once and is welcomed into his arms. More than welcomed; pulled in, grabbed and tugged close, his hands suddenly at her waist, holding her firmly. He dips his head to kiss her. It starts gentle, his mouth a careful pressure against hers. But she’s too impatient for a gentle kiss, now. It’s been too long. She opens her mouth, licks the seam of his lips. It only takes a moment for him to respond, for his tongue to meet hers. Then the gentleness is swept away. Philip takes control of the kiss, takes control of _her_. He delves into her mouth, he nips at her lips. Stubble scrapes across her jaw, and that will leave marks if he isn’t careful, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t care. This...she has _missed_ this, so very much.

And so has he, she can tell. He’s been longing for this as much as she has, though he’s concealed it better. This passion has been so tightly under his control, hidden away even from her, and now it’s been given leave to burst out. He’s intent on devouring her, it seems, and she loves it. On and on they kiss, until she’s almost dizzy from it, dizzy from desire and from the need for air. He lets her breathe while he mouths at her jaw, scrapes his teeth across her pulse and smoothes away the faint irritation with his tongue. Her head falls back to give him better access, and he practically purrs his approval. She tangles her fingers in his hair, arches up against him, a wordless demand that he fulfils, kissing back up her throat to her chin, her mouth. She’s still breathless, but she kisses him anyway, fierce and lustful, wanting more, wanting _everything_. Her entire body is on fire, her skin tingling, her breasts heavy. Her cunt is growing wet. His hands are on her bottom now, kneading a little and then pressing her even closer to him. She can feel the hard line of his cock against her abdomen, and it’s _delicious_. 

She will never grow tired of kissing him, never weary of the way his tongue strokes against hers. The feel of his stubble rasping a little across her skin, the sound of his groan rumbling in his chest. The way he nips at her lower lip, the gentlest of bites, and then sucks on it to soothe the sting. She will never have enough of him. And that’s no longer a terrifying thought, because she knows, now, that he feels the same. He wants her, needs her, every bit as much as she wants him. She will never have to hoard memories. She does not have to covet these precious, passionate embraces. This is hers forever. _He_ is hers, forever.

He speaks, or tries to, the words barely audible, broken up by breaths and kisses. When she doesn’t respond, his grip on her buttocks tightens, until his fingers are digging in. Not painful, but firm, insistent. He turns his head until she’s got no choice but to give in, with a moan of frustration. 

“No,” he rasps. “It’s not going to be a quick fuck tonight, darling, no matter how much you want that.” His eyes are dark, his lips swollen. She traces his mouth with her fingertips. She loves seeing him like this, undone and wild. Hers, all hers. 

“Philip,” she whispers. “I need you.” She wants to be surrounded by him, to feel him inside and out. As deep in her body as he is in her heart. 

Philip shakes his head, but doesn’t give her a chance to respond. He lets go of her, but only briefly, only so he can scoop her up into his arms, practically sweeping her off her feet. She yelps and clutches at him, but there’s no need. He has her firmly enough, and he doesn’t take her far. All he does is spin around and deposit her on the bed. She lands with a bounce, ending up flat on her back in the middle of the bed. He puts a hand on her ankle, encircling it lightly with his fingers, and her breath catches in her throat. His face is…she can’t put words to his expression. It’s strange; there’s some emotion there that she can’t name. Something she’s never seen in him before. The distance between them is suddenly too great. She sits up and reaches for him. He kneels on the bed, cups her face in his hands, kisses her again. She runs her hands across his chest, up his arms, roving aimlessly. She’s desperate to feel every inch of his skin against hers. 

“Always so impatient,” he mutters against her mouth. Hands come to rest on her shoulders, a heavy weight keeping her grounded. “Slow down, darling.” He kisses her jaw, her throat, scraping teeth against her pulse there. “We’ve got all night.” 

“I’ve waited _weeks_ ,” Vera retorts, letting her head fall to one side. Every touch of his tongue, his lips, sends a pulse straight between her legs. 

“And that was your own fault,” says Philip. He speaks softly, but there’s danger lurking there too. She closes her eyes. Yes, her own fault. That’s made it harder to bear, not easier. “So you’ll be patient now,” he continues, “or I’ll tie you down and _make_ you be patient.” He bites her throat, hard enough to sting, but soothes it at once with tongue and with kisses. “C’mon, Vera,” he murmurs, the danger fading away. “Be good for me, hm?” 

His hands have slipped further down, along her arms and then back up to her breasts. He cups them in his hands and kneads one, gently. Vera pushes up against him, offering herself freely. The friction of his palm against her nipple is delicious, and she wants more. But he wants her to be patient; he’s asked her to be good. And after all, he’s right. This enforced abstinence has been because of her actions, her choices. Those choices had hurt him. Anyone else and she wouldn’t care about that, but Philip isn’t anyone else. He’s never been anyone else. She hurt him, and she can’t ever change that. The past is fixed in stone, and even now she doesn’t truly regret what she’d done. But if he wants patience from her now, as payment or penance or reparation for her transgressions, then she can try to give it to him. 

Not that patience has ever been her strong point.

“Fine,” she says. “Fine, I can – _ohhh_.” He’s found her nipple, is rolling it between thumb and forefinger. He teases and rolls and tweaks it into hardness before moving to the other nipple, giving it the same attentions. Then he kisses a trail up her throat again, back to her mouth, and Vera wraps her arms around his neck and lets him swallow the soft sounds she can’t help making. With every passing moment, desire is building up, low in her belly and in her cunt. Patience, she thinks hazily. Patience. He wants to take his time, that’s clear, and she wants…she wants everything he’ll give her. She _wants_.

“Good girl,” he mutters against her mouth. Vera almost squirms from the pleasure of hearing that, but part of her wants to bridle, too. Easy submission isn’t in her nature. Even now, even with Philip. Besides, he knows her too well to expect it. She scratches her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, hard enough to sting him. He hisses through his teeth. Vera does it again, and then suddenly finds herself flat on her back, Philip kneeling astride her, his hands grasping her wrists and pinning them to the bed. “Watch the claws, Vera,” he warns her. But he’s not angry, or even irritated. He’s amused, more than anything else, his mouth twisted into a smile, humour lurking in the creases around his eyes. Vera doesn’t bother trying to fight his hold; instead she lifts her head for another kiss. 

It’s purposeful, possessive, this kiss. Philip takes and takes, his tongue claiming her mouth, his lips hard against hers. She grows dizzy from it, but she doesn’t want it to stop. Desire is coursing through her veins like an electric current. Her heart is pounding, her breathing ragged. She desperately wants him to touch her, more than his hands at her wrists and the weight of him across her legs, but she can’t bring herself to stop kissing him for long enough to demand more. She presses her thighs together and matches his possessiveness with her own. This is hers; he is hers.

“Let’s take the edge off, shall we?” he murmurs after a while, when she’s squirming and desperate, her clit _aching_ for some sort of touch. “Lie still, now.” He lifts himself up, nudges her knees apart and then settles back down, astride her leg. He traces a meandering line up the inside of her thigh, stopping tantalisingly close to her cunt. She tries to encourage him closer, arching her hips a little to make her point. Philip huffs a laugh, but takes the hint. He slides two fingers against her cunt, slipping between the outer lips and then into her core. Not deep, not fast. Slowly, slowly, nothing like enough. “I want to taste every inch of you,” he says. “D’you have any idea how hard it’s been, not touching you? All I’ve wanted to do for _weeks_ is to make you come.” She clenches around him and he chuckles again, and rubs his thumb gently against her clit. 

“Yes, there,” she insists. “God! Philip –,” She won’t beg. She’s aching for him, but she isn’t ready to beg yet. She arches her hips, and for a moment Philip lets her, giving her the smallest bit of friction against her clit, his fingers sliding just a little deeper into her. Then he pushes her hips back down onto the bed, and resumes a gentle, slow stroke of her clit, one finger still inside her but barely. Whenever she tries to move up into his touch, he retreats, so there’s never enough pressure. 

“I want you inside me,” she says. She won’t beg, but there are other ways to tease at his control, to coax him into giving her what she wants. He’s always liked it when she talks. “I want – want your cock in me – been so long –,”

“We’ll get there,” he promises. “We’ve got all night.” He speeds up the stroke of his thumb at her clit, presses more firmly against her and faster, faster, stoking her lust. It builds tighter and tighter within her, a coiling electricity in her loins, focused on her clit. She’s panting for breath, arching up against the delicious friction, clasping onto his shoulders, anchoring herself against him. Then some motion finally sends her over the edge, wound so tight that the orgasm crashes over her, sudden and powerful. All-encompassing. For long moments there’s nothing else, just lightning spinning out along her whole body as Philip strokes her through it. Gentle again, a slow and steady caress of his thumb over her clit. She’s left shaking, boneless on the bed. The edges of her desire sated, for now. 

He barely gives her a moment to get her breath back. He lifts his hand to her mouth, offering her his wet fingers and watching intently as Vera sucks on them, licking them clean, tasting herself on his skin. He likes seeing it, she can tell. His eyes are darker than ever, pupils enlarged, and his lips are parted a little, his breathing pleasingly ragged.

She catches his hand in hers when he begins to withdraw, and kisses his palm. “I’ll suck on something else, if you like,” she mutters against his skin. Philip inhales sharply. Tempted, as she knew he would be. She tugs him down to her, wraps her arms around his neck as he kisses her again. Deep and possessive at first, but then slower, gentler. His cock is pressing against her abdomen, leaking fluid from the tip, but he’s obviously determined to take his time. And Vera doesn’t care, as long as she can stay like this, close to him. Skin to skin, as close as they can be. She wants him inside her, but now that he’s brought her to a first climax, she can wait. For a short while, at least, she can wait.

He ends the embrace, only to drop kisses, butterfly-light, across her cheeks and nose and eyelids. He kisses every part of her face, tender in the way he sometimes can be. Like he’s cherishing her. Cherishing her and claiming every inch of her for his own. She holds onto him and lets him do what he wants. She lets herself bask in the secure comfort of knowing he’s doing this because he cares. Because he _loves_ her. Emotion swells up in her chest, impossible to contain. She cups his face in her hands, strokes her thumb across his cheek. 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, as if he knows what she’s thinking. Probably he does; probably he barely needs to glance at her to know she’s overwhelmed. “I’m here, Vera.” He nuzzles at her throat, then scrapes his teeth gently across her pulse point. The stinging pleasure of it ripples through her. He does it again, and then moves lower, trailing a line of kisses across her collarbone and down to her breast. When he sucks a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, Vera’s breath catches in her throat. She slides a hand into his hair, tries to use it to urge him onwards. Philip only laughs against her skin and transfers his attention to her other breast. He kisses and licks and sucks at her breasts, her nipples, and every stroke of his tongue sends a hot beat of desire into her clit. 

“I could do this all night,” he tells her. His breath is warm against her skin, then cool. He cups a breast in his hand, rolls the nipple between thumb and finger, and a moan escapes her. “Tasting your skin…” He kisses her sternum, pinches her nipple. She moans again, and shifts a little, trying to find some way to give herself friction against her cunt. His leg is between hers, but he’s got her pinned down. She can’t move enough. He pinches the nipple again, a little fiercer this time. “Patience, darling,” he reminds her. “Let me enjoy you, hm?”

“You’d enjoy it even if you fucked me right now,” she snaps, her building desire making her grow impatient again. “I’m not going to _break_ , Philip!”

She hadn’t known it before she said it, but once the words are out, she realises how true they are. That strange expression he’d worn earlier suddenly makes sense. His tenderness comes from love, she believes that, but there’s an element of fear in it, too. His hands on her body are sure and certain, but he’s also careful. Almost too careful. Like he’s afraid of hurting her. It’s never been like that before. He’s been tender and gentle before, slow and sensual, but there’s never been this sense that he thinks she might be…fragile.

It should anger her. She isn’t fragile, has _never_ been fragile, and for Philip of all people to treat her this way…

It should anger her. But she can’t be angry. She knows how much the memory of finding her has haunted him, these past weeks. She knows how scared he’d been that night. And she knows why: she knows it all comes, miraculously, from his love of her. He loves her. She knows he does. She believes it absolutely. The tendrils of trust that she’d tried to resist for so long have taken firm hold of her, now his feelings have been laid bare for her. There’s no doubt in her on that score, not anymore. The truth of it has sunk down into her bones, become part of her identity. And, knowing that, she can’t be angry with him for being afraid. For looking at her and touching her as if she’s still bruised and bloodied from her fall. 

She’d been afraid, after all, when she’d made the choice to destroy their child. No, she doesn’t blame him for treating her as fragile now. She can’t. She knows what fear looks like.

“Philip…” She strokes her hand through his hair, tries to catch his eye. She’s ablaze with desire still, but even she, selfish as she is, can’t bring herself to let this continue without addressing the elephant in the room. She doesn’t quite know how to handle it, though. She isn’t used to seeing Philip like this. His fear, these past few weeks, has been real but contained. This is a lapse in his control.

“I’m not going to break,” she says again. “You know I won’t.”

“Do I?” He rolls off her abruptly, sits up and swings his legs off the edge of the bed. Back to her, face hidden. Startled at the sudden lack of him, Vera sits up too, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say. And yet shouldn’t she know? She understands fear, after all. Of all human emotions, this is one she knows intimately. She’d lived in fear for months, dreading the inevitable day when he would walk away from her. It had driven her to extremes, that fear. But his fear might be nothing like hers and, even if he does feel it the same way, she doesn’t know how to quash it. Her desperate terror has faded fast, now it’s been exposed to the light of day. She doesn’t know how to do that for him. Perhaps she can’t. But she caused this fear; she should try to soothe it.

The silence drags on. She can’t find words. She can’t even find a lie to tell, a falsehood to ease him in some way. She’s never seen him like this. He sits there, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. A bead of sweat makes its slow way down his spine. She has to speak. One of them has to speak.

“I told you the doctor’s satisfied with my progress. There’s no reason to think…”

“No.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “No reason.” 

“Then why won’t you _touch_ me?” she demands. She amends herself before he can. “Why are you touching me like I’m made of glass?” She uncurls, shuffles closer to him. He doesn’t move. She puts her hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension of his muscles beneath the skin. He twitches slightly, but doesn’t shake her off. She searches for something else to say, some way to break open this shell of silence he’s covering himself with. It’s so strange, being on this side of it. Usually it’s the other way around; usually he’s the one prising her open to read all her secrets. 

Honesty, she thinks. That’s all she can do. The one thing he’s always demanded from her. She hates admitting to her confusion, hates admitting she doesn’t understand, but there’s nothing else she can say.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” she offers, quietly. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

At last he huffs a laugh, at last he turns his head to glance at her, over his shoulder. “Ah, Vera. I bet that was hard for you to say.” She doesn’t deny it. She presses herself up against his back, relieved when he leans against her. Skin to skin once more, the contact easing her a little. They’re silent again, but it’s less uncomfortable this time. After a while, Philip sighs. “I know you won’t break,” he acknowledges. “Not now.” Vera nods, but of course he can’t see her. “But you _were_ broken, and I can’t stop seeing it.”

She takes a breath, lets it out slowly, tries to think of what to say. Six months ago she would have tried to lie. Two months ago, even, she might have tried. Now…things are different now. Lies have no place here, not now. But the truth isn’t natural on her tongue, and she has to force it out.

“I can’t apologise,” she manages.

“I know you can’t.” 

“I didn’t know…” She trails off. Even now, the words are hard to say. She didn’t know he loved her. Loves her. She’d hoped, yes, but she hadn’t _known_. But it’s beside the point. This is ground they’ve covered, in fights and in quiet conversations over the past month. It’s not the act itself that haunts him now, it’s the result. All she can do is try to reassure him. “I’ve healed,” she says. “I’m not going to break, Philip.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He clears his throat. She guesses it’s an admission he hadn’t planned to make. At least she isn’t the only one finding this conversation difficult. She wonders if he’d ever have said anything, if she hadn’t been so impatient. So determined to resume the fierce, heated intimacies of before. Not that they’ve never been gentle in the past, but it’s been so _long_. All she’s wanted for days now is for Philip to take her, to fill her body and mind and senses with him. Would he have said anything, she wonders, if she’d been able to let him set the pace? Surely he would have done, eventually. Or something would have betrayed him. She knows him too well, now. She would have seen through any attempt to conceal this from her. Some things he can and does keep hidden. Many things. But not this. This would have emerged sooner or later.

She presses a kiss to his shoulder, rubs her nose against the back of his neck. “You won’t,” she promises. “You won’t hurt me.” Then she very deliberately digs her fingernails into his upper arm, just for a second or two. “Not in _that_ way, at least.” There’s pain and pain, after all, and Philip knows how to dance her along the edge of it. He makes a sound that might be an acknowledgement, but he doesn’t move. He’s not reassured. Not enough to resume their previous activities, anyway. She knows he wants to, knows it isn’t a question of him lacking in desire or interest. He’s missed her as much as she’s missed him. But this fear, this lingering memory, stands between them. An obstacle to pleasure. An obstacle to what she wants.

Someone else would find something else to say. Comforting words. Perhaps a repetition of the assurance that the doctors have agreed she’s fit and healthy again. It wouldn’t be a lie, if she said that. But it’s not the truth, either. The truth is, she’s missed having sex with Philip, and his previous objections, on the basis of her injuries, can no longer be an impediment. Anything else is just superfluous. She’s sympathetic to it, but she has rarely felt sympathetic enough for someone to alter her own behaviour, her own goals. 

It’s coincidental, or so she tells herself, that the only way to prove to him that he won’t hurt her is to keep going. To seduce him into forgetting his qualms. Nothing else will convince him that she’s not broken, and it is, after all, what she wants. What they both want. He’d been almost there before, she was sure. He’d almost forgotten his hidden reservations. Then she’d stumbled onto his fear, and changed the course of the evening. She can set it right again. She’s still achingly ready for him, and his erection won’t have flagged much. 

“Philip,” she murmurs, kissing his shoulder again. Once, twice, over and over, covering his skin with invisible marks of ownership. As tender as he had been, though tenderness doesn’t come naturally to her. She slides her arms around his waist, presses her hands flat against his stomach, rests her chin on his shoulder. “Do you remember the first time we fucked?” 

“I’m not likely to forget.” His hands cover hers, warm and familiar. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you on the train. Those glorious legs.” He chuckles softly. “And you pretending to be so outraged.”

“I _was_ outraged,” she claims, but they both know she’s lying. He chuckles again. If she could see his face, she knows, she’d see a smirk. “We’d been drinking,” she says, pressing on with her story. “How many had died already – five? Six? We were all scared, so we just started drinking, all that good alcohol...and somebody had those drugs…” He shifts in her arms, and she withdraws a little when it becomes clear he’s turning back around, coming back onto the bed. He’s still tense, but it’s easing. She moves up the bed, settles herself against the pillows, and Philip comes to her. Hands sliding up her legs, over her hips, up to her breasts. She’s very careful not to show too much of a reaction, but _oh_ , her breasts are heavy, her nipples peaking again just from the brush of his palms against them. Just as they had that night, when he’d pressed her up against a wall and held her breasts in his hands. Groping at them, exploring her meagre curves, pulling such intensity from her. 

He sees, of course. He always sees. He lowers his head to kiss her, and at the same time caresses her breasts, kneading them, stroking them, until she’s moaning into his mouth. Then he kisses her throat, nips at her pulse, suckles at the skin. He works at one spot, sucking and biting and kissing, clearly intent on leaving a mark. His enthusiasm has grown again, but still she thinks she can sense restraint.

“You came into my room and fucked me,” she manages, gasping the words out, her whole body singing from his attentions. “I barely knew you, but even then –,”

“Even then?” he mutters against her skin. “Even then what?”

“Even then I trusted you not to hurt me.”

“…Christ, Vera.” He stops kissing her but doesn’t move away. His breath is cool on her neck. His face is turned away from her, so she can’t see his expression. But she’d been right to go this way, to remind him of how they’d begun. She’s sure of it. It’s all about trust, after all. Her trust in him, untried though he must think it, and his trust in her, shaken as it has been by recent events. 

Love and trust. Never, before Philip, has she felt both things for a single person. 

“I trust you not to hurt me,” she tells him. “Trust me to tell you, if you do.”

He exhales slowly. Then he lifts himself up, nudges her legs apart and settles back down between them, bracing himself with an arm on the bed. His cock isn’t fully erect; his hesitations have affected his lust. But when Vera puts her hand on it and strokes once, twice, he hardens with pleasing speed. His eyes gleam, his mouth curves into a brief smirk. 

“We’ve come a long way, you and I,” he says. His breath hitches when Vera swipes her thumb across the head of his cock. She does it again, and he makes a sound, deep in his throat. He strokes a hand down from her breasts to her abdomen, flattens his palm against her skin. She almost holds her breath in anticipation. So close. He’s so close to agreeing, to pushing aside his doubts. The wrong word will jar him back into fear, so she stays silent, waiting. Watching. He looks down at her body, brows drawn together in a momentary frown. He murmurs something under his breath, far too quietly for her to hear. She doesn’t ask him to repeat himself; instead she strokes his cock, from base to head. A silent appeal to his baser instincts. He pushes into her touch, a mindless, wordless kind of approval. Then he looks back at her, meets her gaze levelly. “Do I need a condom?” he demands. 

There are a myriad of unspoken questions bound up in those five words, and Vera hears all of them. But she gives the simplest answer: a shake of her head. It’s the truth. There has never been more than the barest of chances that she could conceive. Now it’s even more unlikely. The risk is so infinitesimal that there’s no point worrying about it. It would take a miracle, and neither of them believe in those. 

He keeps looking at her, examining her. Deciding for himself if she’s telling the truth, because he can always tell. She bends her knees and hooks her legs around his waist, heels pressed into his back. He makes another of those deep sounds, a rumble in his chest. She takes it as a good sign, draws him nearer to her. Not that there’s much distance between them; not enough room, now, to use her hand on him. Enough space, barely, to angle her hips up just _so_ , so his cock is between her legs, brushing against her wet cunt. And he moves his hips too, a slow undulation so his cock slides against her. A purposeful thrust against her clit that makes her shudder with want. He does it again, coating his cock in her slickness. She’s aching for him, her core clenching around emptiness. Desperate in a way she would hide from anybody else. But this is Philip, who sees her and loves her and who needs her just as much as she needs him. There’s no need to hide anything anymore. 

“Fuck me,” she invites. Then, because she knows how much it enflames him, she adds: “Please.”

At last, at _last_ he does what she wants. Or, if not quite what she wants, then close enough. He doesn’t go fast; it isn’t fierce when he takes her. It’s a slow, smooth movement, the head of his cock at her entrance and then slowly, slowly sinking in to her. She scrabbles to grasp his arms, his shoulders, _anything_ so long as it’s him, so long as it lets her anchor herself on him. Slowly, slowly he sinks down on her, until she can feel his balls against her skin, can feel the stretch inside as she readjusts to the full length of his cock inside her. Finally he’s inside her, filling her, covering her with his body and making everything else fade away. 

She chokes on a sudden, unexpected sob, and Philip goes still at once. “Vera?”

“I’m – not hurt,” she manages. She can’t say she’s fine; she isn’t. It’s too simple a word to capture everything she’s feeling. She’d thought this would be different, had expected it to be different, but she could never have imagined it would be so…so…so _much_. She’d never imagined she could feel this way. It’s because of him. He’s done this to her, he’s made her feel things like this, deeper than she ever thought possible. He’s taken her warped heart and breathed life into it. She would hate him for it, if she didn’t love him so deeply.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. She lifts her face to kiss him, then moans into his mouth when he rocks his hips against hers. “Philip – please –,” The word tumbles out unbidden this time, but she doesn’t care, because Philip fulfils her wish and starts to move, withdrawing from her only to thrust back in. Faster, harder, everything she’s wanted and more. Skin against skin, hot and wet and building a pressure inside her, winding tighter and tighter with every glorious moment. “Want – want you,” she pants. “Missed – you –,”

“Not going anywhere,” he reminds her, as short of breath as she is. “Christ – darling –,” He kisses her again, kisses her mouth and then her throat, nipping at the places where he’s already showered so much attention. “So much,” she hears him murmur, “so much…” 

“What –,”

“Love you so much,” he rasps, a little louder. He rolls his hips, pushing himself deeper into her, ever-deeper, until they’re no longer separate people. Vera whines, a keening sound high in her throat, helpless to do more. She can’t speak anymore, she can’t breathe, she can’t think. Everything is him. There is nothing else. “Say it,” he demands, rocking into her, changing his angle slightly so he brushes against her clit. She cries out; it’s almost enough to make her reach a climax. Full of him, enveloped by him, she’s so close. “Say it,” he repeats. “ _Tell me_ , Vera!”

She gasps for breath. “I – I love you,” she manages. The words have been so hard to say before, but here, now, they just seem natural. “I love you, I love –,” He interrupts her with a kiss, claiming her mouth again. On and on, deeper and closer, every nerve singing as he pushes her relentlessly further towards the edge. 

He falls over it first. He groans as he comes, hips stuttering against hers. She’s flooded with him. The taste of his mouth on hers, the feel of his cock inside her. The scent of his sweat. There’s nothing else but Philip. Nothing else exists. And his orgasm spurs her own, sending spiralling waves of pleasure throughout her whole body. The force of it makes her tremble, makes her shudder and cry out, stars behind her eyes and Philip holding her closer than ever.

They lie together for a while, Philip mostly on top of her. Vera’s heart slows, her breathing becomes more even. He’s heavy, anchoring her down into the mattress, but she doesn’t care, and he seems disinclined to move. Sweat cools on her skin. Her mind is a glorious blank. No fears plague her, no doubts. She’s rarely at peace, hardly knows what that means, but this…this is as peaceful as she gets.

Finally he expels a breath and rolls off her. “Smoke?” he offers, leaning across to the bedside table for cigarettes and a match. 

“I’ll share yours,” she murmurs. She yawns and stretches, and feels a slight twinge deep in her abdomen. He’s looking away, but she controls her flinch nonetheless. It’s not pain, she’s not _hurt_ , but there’s definitely a slight ache inside her. No more than she might expect, she tells herself, after two months of abstinence. Still, she knows he’ll want to know. She knows he won’t like it. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she says, to give herself a moment. She rolls off the bed as he lights his cigarette. “I won’t be long.”

There’s a trace of blood, when she uses the toilet. Just a trace. She really isn’t in pain, so she chalks it up to slight over-exertion and flushes the evidence away. She splashes water on her face and neck and thinks carefully. Her instinct is to pretend it hasn’t happened. To lie, if he asks her if she’s alright. That’s what she’s always done, after all. She’s survived by hiding away her vulnerabilities. She doesn’t have to hide anymore, but honesty still doesn’t come easily, and she’s not sure if an omission might not be the better option, if she’s able to get away with it. She’s never seen Philip afraid like that; she doesn’t know how to handle it. And she certainly has no wish for him to treat her as fragile.

But no. No. He loves her. There’s no reason to hide; he’s already proved he’ll stay with her, come what may. She doesn’t want him to think of her as breakable, but if she tries to hide this, and he finds the lie, it will be worse. Trust, she reminds herself. Trust.

He’s sitting up against the head of the bed when she returns to the bedroom. Smoking his cigarette, his eyes sharp and fixed on her from the moment she reaches the door frame.

“Alright?” he checks.

“I ache a little,” she admits. She can’t meet his eyes, but that doesn’t stop her climbing back into bed next to him. She presses close against his side and he wraps his arm around her, offers her the cigarette as she settles. “Just a bit. It’s just muscles I haven’t used in a few weeks, that’s all.”

“Get Mattie to look you over tomorrow.”

“There’s no need –,”

“Please,” he says. It’s so unusual that Vera finds herself without any response. She takes a drag from the cigarette, exhales it slowly, and then passes it back to him.

“Alright,” she agrees mildly. “If you like.” She rests her head on his shoulder. He strokes his fingers up and down her arm, tracing shapes onto her skin while he smokes. They’re both silent, but it’s not a comfortable silence. It’s not his weapon, for once, but still, there’s a pressure in it. There are things Vera wants to ask, things she’s sure he won’t answer. He knows every inch of her, he’s possessed her and consumed her, right down to the dregs of her past, but she can’t turn the silence into a weapon like he can. All she can do is try to find the right words to prise open the crack he’s exposed. 

Surprisingly, unexpectedly, he breaks the silence first. “When I saw you at the bottom of the stairs,” he says, “I thought you were dead.” Vera nods. She knows this; he’s said it before. “So much blood. I thought…” He breaks off, smokes in silence for a minute. She lets him be, lets him take his time, because she’s sure he’ll close up tight if she pushes too much. “My sister,” he says at last, abruptly. “My sister Caitlin.” 

He’s taken her off-guard. She sits up, turns so she’s facing him properly. He isn’t looking at her; he’s staring at something far away. His sister, she thinks. What does his sister have to do with anything? She’d died…years ago. She’d died, and somebody had been to blame for it. He’s spoken of it only once, months ago now. Before Christmas, before…well, not before the baby had existed, but before she’d known about it. It seems so long ago now. 

“What about her?” she prompts, when he doesn’t say anything else. Gently, softly, encouraging rather than demanding. His gaze flicks towards her for a moment, then away. 

“She died when I was fifteen,” he says. Something about that rings a bell, vaguely. She can’t quite remember why. “I didn’t think about it at the time – when I found you – but afterwards…all that blood, on your skirt and your legs…” He isn’t usually this disjointed. He isn’t usually this _open_. She doesn’t know what to think about it, this new facet of his character. She doesn’t know how to react. She’s used to his anger and frustration, to lust and possession. She’s used to his happiness, too. She’s seen him boyish with laughter, and sleepily affectionate. But she’s not used to this. 

Impulsively, she reaches out and takes his hand, tangles their fingers together. It’s a gesture of comfort that she would never mean, towards anyone else. But for Philip, it’s real. She wants to comfort him. She wants to be the one he leans on, as she leans on him. She wants that. It’s strange and new and unexpected, to feel such sympathy for someone, but it’s a genuine urge. She’s selfishly glad that he doesn’t pull away from her. 

Indeed, at first he doesn’t show any sign that he’s noticed their clasped hands at all. “I was fifteen,” he repeats. Then he grips her hand tighter, almost convulsively, like he’s not in control of himself. “She’d been raped,” he tells her. Vera sucks in a breath, unable to control her reaction. “ _Violated_ ,” he amends, disgust etched across his face and dark hatred in his voice. “And I found her. He’d left her dumped in an alley near the tenements, out of the way enough that she might have…” Might have died. He doesn’t have to say the words for her to know that’s what he’s thinking. “He’d hurt her. There was blood. It seemed a lot to me, at the time, but looking back, it can’t have been that bad.”

She understands the shape of his fear, now. The reason why he’d been so intent on touching her gently, so reticent to fuck her. It’s an old wound, one that’s festered in the darkest corners of his mind for years. The two situations are different, of course. His sister had, she assumes, done little or nothing to bring her suffering onto herself, whereas Vera…but she can see why old memories have been thrown up for him. Even Philip’s self-control has limits. Blood on her legs, on her skirt. A violent assault the cause of both injuries. Painful memories have a tendency to rise to the surface when something happens to unearth them. She knows that as well as anyone. 

When he continues, his voice is carefully, completely blank. “Afterwards,” he says, “she couldn’t live with it. She said she couldn’t…get clean. So she took some pills, and everyone pretended it had been an accident, because suicides can’t be buried in consecrated ground.” He sneers at that, lip curling. “ _Christians_. And Catholics are the worst of the lot. Hypocritical bastards.” 

She inhales, then lets the breath out slowly while she tries to put her thoughts into words. She has so little compassion, but rape…she doesn’t think there’s a woman alive who wouldn’t be compassionate about that. And if he was fifteen, his sister can’t have been much more than a child either. Disgust coils in her stomach. Maybe it shouldn’t. She has, after all, killed a child. Some would say that murder is a worse crime than rape. But she can’t control how she feels, and it feels worse, to her, that a woman should be assaulted so violently. Worse than letting a child drown. 

Perhaps it’s only because it happened to Philip’s sister, and he’s let her see the scar it’s left on him. Love for Philip transmuting into sympathy for his sister, into anger on her behalf. He’s made her feel so many other things, after all. 

“Did you kill him?” she asks eventually. He looks at her, almost surprised. Like he’d been miles away when she spoke. “The man who did it,” she clarifies. “Did you kill him?”

“Yeah, I killed him.” He reaches out to the bedside table, stubs out the cigarette in the ash tray there. “Knifed him in the gut. It felt good when I did it, but she was still gone.” Vera nods. She’s always found vengeance to be sweet, in whatever form it takes, but it can’t bring back the dead. “Afterwards, I thought I should have done more,” Philip adds. “Made him suffer more. Like she’d suffered. But I’d never killed before. I didn’t know then what I know now.” He smiles a dark, dangerous smile. “I know how to make a man suffer, now.” 

“I’m – sorry that I – scared you,” Vera whispers after a moment. She stumbles over the words, feeling barely articulate. It’s because she means it. A lie would trip off her tongue easily, so very easily. False sympathy, false guilt, those would be child’s play. The real emotions…she’s not used to feeling those. She’s not used to caring so much for somebody else that their pain becomes her pain. It’s never happened with anybody before; there’s never been anybody who means as much as Philip does. And now he’s shared this story with her, now she knows where his fear comes from…now she _does_ feel sorry. Truly sorry. It’s a complicated feeling, not pure regret in the way someone else might feel it. Because even now that she sees the depths of his fear, the fact remains that her choices led to the revelation that he loves her, and she can never, ever be sorry for that. She can’t be sorry for what she did in the way someone else might be. But nonetheless she does feel regret. Guilt, even, though she could never have known how badly her actions would hurt him, nor that it would throw up such old, painful memories. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, forcing the words out again when he doesn’t say anything. “Philip…”

He looks at her, still with that dangerous glint in his eyes, and she suffers a long moment of intense scrutiny. No doubt he assumes she’s insincere, and she can’t deny it’s a fair assumption. But this time, it’s the truth. She’s sorry she scared him, sorry his distress has lingered for so long. And it’s not because his fear has been an impediment to her own desires, this evening. It’s not because of that. She lets him look and hopes he’ll see the truth of it.

“So you are,” he says at last. “So you are.” To her relief, he doesn’t probe further into it. He could, easily. Find the right question to ask, delve into the depths of her contrition. But for once he doesn’t; for once he lets it be. Instead he uses their joined hands to give her a gentle tug. Vera takes the hint, and settles back down against him, as she had been before. Head on his shoulder, his arm around her. When she’s comfortable, he speaks again. “I know you won’t break, darling. Nothing keeps you down for long. Sometimes an image just sticks in your mind, you know?” 

Yes, she knows. Things long-since buried can rise too easily, given provocation. Still, she’s glad to be reassured that his reactions truly have been because of an old wound. It would be unbearable, truly unbearable, to have him see her as delicate in any way, as something easily breakable, after all they’ve been through together. Unbearable to have so altered his perception of her. But she doesn’t need to worry about that. He still sees her, all of her, right down to her core. Her strength as well as her secrets.

“It’ll fade away, soon enough,” Philip murmurs. “Just like your bruises.” He turns his head, presses a kiss to her forehead in the place where, two months ago, she had cut herself when she’d fallen down the stairs. 

“Time heals all wounds,” she agrees. “Or so they say.” She feels him smile, his lips still at her forehead. She’s strangely tempted to thank him for sharing his story. She’s genuinely glad that he’s exposed himself to her, that he trusts her enough to show such…not weakness, Philip isn’t weak, not ever. Vulnerability, perhaps. Yes, he’s allowed himself to be vulnerable, and allowed her to be the one to see it. It fills her with selfish pleasure that _she_ is the one who’s allowed to hear this story. _She_ is the trusted companion, a safe place for him just as much as he is for her. She has his heart and mind, as much as his body.

She doesn’t thank him. One honest admission of feeling is quite enough for one night, at least as far as she’s concerned. Instead she lifts her head, finds his mouth with hers and kisses him. Gently, as tenderly as she’s able, she kisses him. Lies are best told by actions, after all, and perhaps the truth is, as well. 

”Ah, Vera,” he says, when she withdraws. “You do still surprise me.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to get bored,” she teases. He chuckles, and shakes his head, but offers no riposte. She risks one final remark. “I’m not broken,” she tells him quietly. “A little battered, perhaps, but not broken.”

“I know. Tough as old boots, you are.” He’s smirking at her now, eyes glinting, and Vera allows herself to rise to the bait, pleased his mood is lifting. She whacks his arm and feigns more irritation than she truly feels. 

“If you’re going to be rude, I’m going to sleep,” she informs him. “Some of us have a hard day’s work ahead of us, you know. We can’t all swan around New York in a chauffeur-driven car looking after debutantes.”

He makes a face but doesn’t contest it. “It pays well,” he reminds them both. Then he follows her lead, reaching to switch off the light and then settling himself for sleep. He presses close behind her, chest to her back, and pulls the blankets up and over them both before wrapping an arm around her waist. Vera yawns and closes her eyes. She relishes every point of contact, every brush of skin against skin, and the warmth of his breath on her neck. The familiar sensations of being held by him, cradled in his arms, protected through the night against dangers both external and internal. 

Slowly the room quietens as the darkness settles in. She yawns again, and burrows into his arms a little more. Philip hums in response, tightens his arm around her.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into her ear. “Go to sleep, Vera.”

“Mm,” she agrees, drowsily. “My Philip.”

“All yours, darling,” he promises. “All yours.”


End file.
